


sweet dreams are made

by milkdaze (flowerstems)



Series: feel good inc. [3]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Day 5, Domestic, M/M, Olivarry Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerstems/pseuds/milkdaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mornings aren't always like this, they're usually drowsier, Oliver's usually a lot more unconscious, but this is nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweet dreams are made

Oliver is a night owl, a night light in the whir of the nightlife, and old habits die hard (no matter how hard he tries to kill them).

Whenever Oliver gets back late, he slips under the covers he wraps his arms around you and presses his forehead to the back of your neck, holds you as though he's afraid to lose you to the night, as though he got lost himself and that's why the faintest sunlight is already spilling through the city when he settles down. Barry knows this from personal experience.

Oliver isn't the most vocal about, well, anything, but he tries to be honest when he thinks the truth isn't dangerous, and he has more tell-tale signs than he realises.

Almost everything Barry knows about Oliver is thanks to observation, as well as a certain few who tend to fill in the blanks because they are so used to the sudden brooding silences or the suddenly empty space.

Barry thinks Oliver may just be a tad bit impulsive—just on certain days.

Today is definitely one of those days.

Oliver probably got home around dawn, it's a good estimate, yet he's up, already flitting through the house, and it's not even midday.

“Since when does Oliver Queen wake up before three in the afternoon?” Barry leans against the doorjamb and pulls a sleepy smile when Oliver turns to look at him, doing that huffy laugh that he does and wow, it's just one of those days where the little things seem so breath-taking.

Oliver walks over, puts a hand on Barry's waist, and kisses him chastely. Then he screws up his face, “Oh my god, Barry Allen, go brush your teeth.”

Barry laughs and purposely puffs a breath of air in Oliver's face, laughs even more when he pretends to gag, and lets out a content sigh when Oliver pulls him into his arms.

He rests his head on Barry's shoulder, kisses his neck lightly, then says, “I'm not going to kiss you again until you brush your teeth.” Oliver and his damn ultimatums.

“But something smells so good, you can't send me away without food.”

“But that’s what I’m doing, isn't it?”

Barry furrows his brow and gives Oliver his most petulant look, leans in quick for a kiss that Oliver can just barely pull away from, and drops his head back as he groans. “Ugh, fine, you win this round.”

Mornings aren't always like this, they're usually drowsier, Oliver's usually a lot more unconscious, but this is nice.

This is something Barry wants to get used to.

  


When they have breakfast it’s still morning and it’s a little weird because breakfast is usually at 10 am or 4 pm, consisting of coffee and a pastry or two while on the run. It’s not freshly cooked food at home on a table set for two with the love of his life.

The vigilante life demands sacrifice yet here they are, sitting beside each other at a table in their home, knees bumping under the table as they eat their eggs sunny-side up with a glass of orange juice (five glasses for Barry). It’s the first time they’ve had breakfast together, Barry thinks, and he kind of wants them to have breakfast like this every day.

But the vigilante life demands sacrifice.

Oliver looks content to ignore that sacrifice for today, at least. Instead of his usual tenseness, his stiff expression that comes with too many secrets and obligations, too much worrying and constant over-thinking, the lines of his face are smooth, calm in the morning light and Barry can’t look away.

He’s finishing his glass when he just happens to glance at Barry, catches him staring and chuckles because he may be an adult, but Barry still acts like a teenager in love for the first time. Always with the poorly concealed stares and the big, bright smile that makes him seem like an open book that Oliver wouldn’t mind reading and reading.

Oliver tries not to say it, but he finds him absolutely adorable.

  


They spend most of the day just enjoying each other’s company. Twelve hours of just sitting around watching television, fighting for the remote, Oliver throwing his leg across Barry’s lap when Barry gets the remote and makes him sit through some Spanish soap opera, Barry lying down across Oliver’s back when they end up in bed and they just lie there, whining and groaning and laughing. It’s not spectacular, nothing about their day is novel worthy, no detail worth pointing out to Iris or Thea when they ask how their day off together was, but it still feels special.

It’s a day of nothing but time spent together, little things like brewing coffee for each other or stealing snacks and kisses, talking about the weather or maybe getting a few plants to put near the window.

“We have plants—”

“No, Oliver, I mean _real_ plants.”

“You’re so picky.”

“That’s how I got you.” Barry gets a kiss for that.

It’s nothing at all spectacular, nothing to sell to the paparazzi or write home about, but it’s a day spent together, the kind of day they never thought they’d have together, and when Oliver falls asleep as Barry’s sprawled obnoxiously on top of him, Barry’s just glad he’s relaxed enough to fall asleep.

It’s late at night, the moon’s out and it announces itself with the moonlight slipping through the spaces in the curtains, and Oliver’s at home with Barry, a night owl, a night light dim, cool and asleep at home, nightlife forgotten.

Old habits die hard, and Oliver will probably be out and about tomorrow night, workaholic that he is, and Barry will be busy doing whatever comes up, as things tend to.

But tonight Oliver is at home, asleep beside the love of his life, and it’s nothing spectacular. The world doesn’t stop spinning, their cities don’t spontaneously combust. It’s still nothing to write home about, but Barry slides an arm around Oliver’s waist and ducks his head into his side, feeling the rise and fall of his back as he just breathes, listens until he just thinks he can hear Oliver’s beating heart, and Barry thinks that it’s something he’d like to be able to remember for as long as he can.

Barry thinks he wouldn’t mind writing about something like this because it's just one of those days where the little things seem so breath-taking.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you like pointless fluff as much as I do, because I _do_. title is from eurythmics' 'sweet dreams'.


End file.
